The Other Companion
by Street Howitzer
Summary: There were times, for the merest flash of a second, when he ceased to be Watson and became nothing less than John.  Slash.


"The Other Companion"

by Street Howitzer

There were times, for the merest flash of a second, when he ceased to be Watson and became nothing less than John. Sometimes, it was simply in the way his slightly amazing housemate spoke to him; a casual note would slip into his otherwise-egocentric tones, and he would speak as one friend to another, an allowance that Watson may serve a purpose other than a phonograph recording his life.

Less often, it was literally spoken-a highly distracted Holmes, with his mind still caged in some experiment, might greet him with the salutation _Hullo! Back from your stroll already, John?_ and not even look up from his boiling beakers of chemicals. He never reacted any differently, knowing that this would well embarrass a man so distant from his fellow-mortals as Sherlock Holmes.

Once, it was in the way his friend touched him. Watson would be long in forgetting the caper of the triple Garridebs, and not only because of the thin scar that ran across his thigh, or the brief agony of the bullet grazing his leg that was seared into his memory. With barely a moment's thought, and by closing his eyes, he could picture himself back in that dark cellar, smell the hot odour of burnt gunpowder stinging his nostrils, and feel the way Holmes's hands and voice had quavered when he realised that the doctor was shot.

Holmes had said _Watson _when he asked if he was hurt, and _Watson _when he begged for him to say that he was well, and _Watson_ when he told Killer Evans that if his friend had died, Holmes would have murdered him. But his voice was querulous, and his hands shook hard as they stroked over his wound, testing its depth. Those touches spoke of a different intimacy, and worriedly called him _John_.

The doctor had believed until that moment that Sherlock's maker had mistakenly concealed a lump of ice in his chest in place of a heart, and that nothing but cold water and cocaine swept through his veins. It was marvelous, being proved so very wrong.

These moments were as rare as honour, and although he never wrote of a single instance (even his accounting of Holmes's threats to Evans left this unsaid), each was well-remembered and treasured-memories hoarded away, like some men hoard their immense wealth.

Some nights, the silence was a mediator, negotiating between Watson's tired body and his weary heart. As a youthful man, he'd never had trouble with sleeping, and married life had not taxed his restfulness. That was until his thirty-ninth year, when the death of Holmes had shattered some surety inside of him, the placid core of his heart which knew that good men such as Sherlock did not fall to their unspeakable dooms, that certain men's final testaments to the world were not written on scraps of paper tucked into cigarette-cases. Watson did not even know that this core of his being existed until it was gone. The void of it whistled like wind through a cracked windowpane, and that sibilance drove away the hope of sleep.

Mary (poor Mary!) would wake in the middle of the night; she thirsted easily, and always rose at least once to take a drink. And, from his return from that terrible stay in Switzerland, she would wake to find her husband sitting up in bed, staring out the window, his mind full of two sets of footprints leading to that monstrous chasm... two sets walking towards, and none leading away. Sometimes, when sleep dodged him, he could think of happier times-of their bachelorhood and their adventures, and once or twice, upon the sound of his Christian name from Holmes's mouth. But most often, that last trip to Switzerland was a tyrant in his mind.

When she found him thus, it was not so horrible. She understood, as women do, without his having to utter a word-and there was a mystery that Sherlock's brain could never have puzzled through. Mary would slip into her robes and her slippers, and disappear for a time, only returning to their bedroom when she'd prepared a little pot of tea. The sound of porcelain clinking against porcelain, the soft gurgle of liquid pouring from pot to cup, and the smooth tones of her voice as she filled the night with words... all disguised that rasping void, and he loved her as nothing else.

Then she died, and what was left for him?

Watson was not a leader, nor an independent soul. He was the sort of man who needed someone to rely on, someone to help guide him out of the ruts he always dug for himself. He was not stupid, nor was he cattle, but he was often helpless when he lacked something to build his life around, as men of the army sometimes were when they were reduced to civilian life. For so much of his manhood, he had built his actions and thoughts about Holmes-then, there had been Mary. With her death, it was as if some skilled surgeon had cut out all that hoped and dreamed within his heart, whatever had remained for him after Sherlock's demise.

That gaping hole cried out to him, calling him _John _in tones he never wanted to hear, and though he worked like a slave at his practice, he did not often sleep. When he did, it was when he forced himself to attend the silence in his empty bedroom-listening to it, as surely as if it were a sound, as if it begged for his guilt and loneliness to leave off him and let him find some repose.

As year passed into year, the silence lost some of its power; the void became a chasm, and he sometimes heard nothing at night but the thunder of water. When that happened, he would think of his medicine bag, and of the sedatives and opiates in their glass bottles, wanting a gut to splash down into. Yet he remained in his narrow, solitary bed-not because he believed that the drugs might do him ill, but because he knew that the simple act of taking a drug as a catholicon for his emotions would remind him too much of Holmes. He might sleep, but his dreams would swim around his memories, replaying exactly how lean and alert Sherlock had looked while leaning back against that boulder next to the falls. He would wake more miserable than if he'd never slept, and with no wife to speak to and to drink with, he would simply give up.

Many mornings of his forty-third year bloomed in the garden of the horizon, and found Dr. Watson already in his sitting-room, drinking a stiff cup of tea, and reading one of his deceased companion's old books.

There were times, almost as rare as when the doctor was called by his given name, when Holmes was queerly modest. Most often, such modesty was as real and lingering as smoke, a false front the detective built in order to help outwit a foe. But when it came to how he might impress other people-in ways, naturally, not related to his superiour intelligence-Sherlock had always been strangely blind. He was, well and truly, proud of his spectacular return from the dead; only one Other had achieved such a feat, and he most assuredly knew it.

Yet when he presented himself to Watson once more, and his friend collapsed in a grey faint, his first response was to apologise. He did not know, he said, that Watson would be so deeply moved by his re-appearance.

The doctor had barely thought of this proffering as it was spoken. He was far too overwhelmed at the sight of that lank figure standing before him, and the sound of that proud voice he'd never expected to hear again, to think of such a triviality. Even the leaden paleness which had overcast his friend's features had not thrown him off his joyfulness. Later still, after their adventure in the empty house, he did ponder it-and did not know what he should make of it. Sherlock himself had observed that Watson's affection for him would have ruined any sincerity in his last tale, had he known that his friend had survived.

How could he know, and yet remain ignorant?

That night, Watson heard nothing but silence, and this long-lost friend soothed him into a dreamless sleep.

Albeit Sherlock's declaration that all was just as it had been before, there were some spare differences between them after his resurrection. Two of these were welcome, so far as the doctor was concerned: he could now sleep through the even, and if he chose to stay awake a bit later, it was to hear his old friend plucking at and playing his violin. There were no cases in that beginning, for London was not yet aware of the fact that its brightest star had come out from behind the storm-clouds, but that was fine enough for him. After that brief nastiness with Colonel Moran, he had no eagerness to throw himself straightaway into such work. He did have his practice to think of.

Naturally, some things did reassert themselves. After only three days, their rooms smelled of leather, tobacco and acid, a combination which was utterly repulsive to Mrs. Hudson, yet delightfully homey to his own senses. And on the third day of Holmes's return, he found that the detective was not yet risen. A brief, silent foray into his bedrooms revealed Sherlock lying in a glass-eyed fugue on his bed, still fully dressed, with syringe, tourniquet, and a glass vial placed carefully on his bedside table. At this all too familiar sight, Watson had sighed, knowing that he would not see or hear of his companion for at least four days.

Yet there was an unwelcome difference in how Holmes treated him. In the past, Sherlock had rarely turned more than a superficial eye to his old friend's condition. A brief glance would tell him where Watson had been, what he had done when he was there, and who he'd been with-and usually, he was not shy in sharing his deductions to his stunned housemate. But after his return, Watson found himself under a stranger kind of scrutiny. Each even, there would be a slight pause in Holmes's playing, prompting the doctor to look up from his tea and his paper. Each time, he recognised the keen, searching expression in those gray eyes. Then the violin would strike up once more, filling the night with well-tuned notes, and Holmes would shut his eyes as he lost himself in whatever mental world he traversed when he played.

It lasted for only a moment-but as before, the silence was a moderator. As before, it did not tell the doctor near enough, and only tried to soothe. Briefly meeting Sherlock's gaze quelled his loneliness, and told him that all was well... but what was that brilliant mind seeing? What odd mannerisms was he mentally dissecting?

What was Watson giving away?

As befit his history, Holmes rose from his drug-induced lethe a few days later. The doctor was glad of it. After a mere three days, he'd already grown accustomed to hearing his friend play, and being in his presence. Though Sherlock was technically still at home, his cocaine-tainted state was like an absence. He was sorely missed.

That even was spent pleasantly, with Holmes taking nothing stronger than tobacco and a whisky, and rising to turn in at the thoroughly decent hour of ten o'clock. Watson rose with him, nodded his good-night, and moved towards his bedrooms. To be honest, he was of a nervous humour; his friend had paused not once, but twice in his violin-playing, and each silence was marked with that weird, thorough stare. The second time, Watson had been convinced that he would speak, but the detective, never ceasing to surprise him, had said nothing.

And he said nothing now, as he chose to pace after the doctor, and caught his wrist with his thin, bony fingers. To his amazement, Watson realised that his friend's normally-firm grip was shaky and unsteady. This was all the time he had for realisation, before his oldest friend leaned down, cutting off the distance between them with a nervous press of a kiss.

Thought dispersed, like a disturbed flock of birds all taking wing as one.

Sherlock's bedrooms were closer, and they thus found themselves there. Save for checking on him during his binges and illnesses (real and faked), the doctor had never stepped foot inside these chambers, and had certainly never tumbled back into his best friend's bed. Even here, there was the heavy smell of pipe smoke permeating everything, along with a milder musk that, he presumed, was Sherlock's own. The thought made his head feel light and insubstantial.

It was as dark as a cave at midnight, shielding their wanton shamefulness from the eyes of the world, and from each other. He had never felt more confused in all his days, yet his hands did not hesitate as they slipped over the worn silk of bed-clothes, undoing buttons and untying knots, seeking the cool quality of flesh beneath his work-rough fingers. It was a delicate, but successful, procedure, and as he worked, he felt exquisitely fine hands likewise tracing over his frame, unbinding his body from its armour of robe and sleeping-clothes. Even when he was married, he had never gotten fully undressed in bed, but now all slipped by, whispering to the floor in a heavy pile of silk and terry.

Lord, he was cold! Though his dearest friend was of a chilly disposition, he also burned with such a hot passion when he put his mind to something... it had led Watson to believe that touching him so would be like sticking his hand in a furnace. But there was no cocaine to speed up his heart and give him a fever, and his skin was as cool as autumn. Only his mouth was warm-the lips were a welcome heat against his own, and he gasped against Holmes's mouth when he coiled their tongues together.

The doctor could not see in this terminal darkness, not even after some time had passed and he dared to open his eyes. He was never more grateful to be blind as when his hands slipped over his companion's spindly, weary body, grasping, stroking, learning each moment of the years they'd spent apart by the sparse thinness of his waist, the slight swells of muscle carved into him by weeks of walking. No matter how thoroughly he explored, though, he could not seem to affect Sherlock's body the same way the detective affected his-and he was agonized, aching. Being alone for so long changed him into a youth once more, and he felt that he would exceed before long.

It did not take long for it to occur to him that, perhaps, it was not his clumsy efforts that were the problem; the trouble lay with the countless needles of cocaine Holmes had taken in his life, and their cumulative and tragic effect on some parts of the body. At this, he was at a loss, until his companion quietly chuckled at his desperate embarrassment, and guided Watson's fingertips to a spot slightly lower on his body.

After a moment, he found both his breath and his courage. There was nothing at hand to make his way easier-nothing but time, and briefly laving over his fingers with his tongue before he started. He shut his eyes against the night, and listened with his ears and with his body. Aloud, there was nothing but their twining cries (for he could not help but echo each of his dearest friend's vocalisations, as if he could somehow feel what each little stroke was doing to the other man), the rasp of heavy breath, and the slick of skin shifting against bed-sheets. Neither was particularly loud; not only were they both rightly worried of being overheard, but for his part, Watson's possessive shame (_I know it is wrong, but it is mine_) would not permit him to utter more than the softest of moans. For the other's part, Sherlock was near-silent, barring an occasional hiss of frustration-then, and then, there was a marvelous cry of surprised satisfaction, a shiver of limbs, a clenching, and a needful grip around his waist.

He all but fell down, pressing his flushed face against the smoke-scented pillowslip, his body shifting to lie down and press forward, as it was demanded. And now he could not keep his silence-as if it were a thing of flesh and blood, all reticence fled. He cried out at this satiation of his darker thoughts, this healing of the faith that had been shattered at Holmes's death. His deeper tones obliterated the near-soundlessness of the other man, who only took in deeper breaths as he shifted, pressing himself more firmly against their enjoining. Once, only once, did Sherlock cry aloud, another startled moan at receiving some unexpected pleasure, but there were other ways of speaking, and his lover's body was listening.

He said nothing when he rocked their bodies together, and he said nothing when his fine hands gripped onto the doctor to guide him, and he said nothing when he reached finality and, digging his nails and his teeth into Watson's back and shoulders, fell into some private oblivion. But his hands quivered as they caressed and explored, and his body trembled and tightened as it accepted his lover, and each lick and scratch and rough-hewn kiss called him _John_.

That unspoken word was more potent than any physical sensation, and the voiceless sound of it was more than enough to bring him to completion.

-end-


End file.
